


Ugly

by arturas



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games), Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Feelings, I mean literal porn centred around angst, Introspection, Plot With Porn, Self-Esteem Issues, and I don't mean lots of angst (though there's definitely lots of angst too), angst porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29898438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arturas/pseuds/arturas
Summary: ‘You said you could only teach me how to play pazaak. When I felt your thoughts with Kreia, though, she said… said there were other things you thought about. Hyperspace routes. Ticks in the machines. Other…scenarios.’Meetra has questions about the ways in which Atton shields his thoughts.He probably shouldn't have answered her.
Relationships: Female Jedi Exile/Atton "Jaq" Rand, The Jedi Exile/Atton "Jaq" Rand
Comments: 7
Kudos: 5





	Ugly

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for very mild sex (seriously - it barely qualifies as explicit) but a crap-tonne of angst, self-loathing, self-disgust and other not very healthy or positive thought patterns. If you clicked on this story for feel-good porn, my apologies; it's 90% angst and 10% questionably sexy times. Go read The Last to Know or The Audition if you want happy smut.

_are you ugly, a liar like me?_

_a loser, a lost soul, someone you don't know?_

_money, it's no cure; a sickness, so pure_

_are you like me? are you ugly?_

~ "Ugly", The Exies

* * *

The _Ebon Hawk_ isn’t the smallest ship Atton’s flown on but it’s a near thing. He was fortunate enough to sign on early, though, so the cockpit has become his domain almost by default despite the growing legion of misfits and miscreants Surik seems to draw to her. It probably helps that he’s basically the only organic who has reason or motivation to fly this piece of crap. And yeah, okay, the pilot’s chair is hardly more comfortable than the bunks but at least he can count on privacy more often than not.

Given the footsteps approaching him, today’s looking like a “not”. Fortunately he’s only shuffling a pazaak deck instead of anything more personal.

He’s not going to bother turning around at first. It’s not until his rudimentary Force senses recognize the approaching form as that of Surik that he spins his chair easily, lazily, giving her a not-entirely-feigned smile. ‘What’s up, sweetheart?’

Just because she’s his “Master” now doesn’t mean he’s going to change how he acts towards her. She seems to get a kick out of it and truth be told, he doesn’t think he could bring himself to act like a reverent student even if there was a blaster at his head. If there were _other_ forms of motivation, maybe, but they’d have to be pretty damn good.

‘Got a question for you.’ She crosses to sit in the co-pilot’s chair, resting her boots on the center console like she spends as much time here as he does. She waits for him to mirror her and nod his head before she continues. ‘It’s to do with that game of pazaak you taught me to play. The head one.’

It’s not the worst thing she could be approaching him about. Ironically despite the cards in hand he doesn’t actually have a game running at the moment; he’s counting the ticks of the hyperdrive instead. Pazaak does get boring after a while but shuffling at least keeps his hands occupied. ‘Shoot.’

‘You said you could only teach me how to play pazaak. When I felt your thoughts with Kreia, though, she said… said there were other things you thought about. Hyperspace routes. Ticks in the machines. Other… _scenarios_.’

He raises an eyebrow like he doesn’t know exactly what she’s talking about, like he doesn’t make those particular shields as graphic and uncomfortable for Kreia to drop in on as possible. Theoretically, anyway – he’s not particularly invested in finding out what the old witch is into but he feels safe in assuming it’s nothing like the almost satirically saccharine scenes he tends to picture imaginary Meetra in. ‘Oh? Did she?’

Surik folds her arms, juts her chin out in a challenge. Her eyes glint – amusement, maybe, or at least interest in his answer. ‘She did. And I’m inclined to believe her. But you don’t seem to ever have a spare blaster in your pants, so…’

He snorts. ‘Is it that hard to believe I’m capable of some self-control?’

‘The first thing you ever said to me was a come-on.’

‘You were in nothing but your underwear. What was I meant to do, _not_ comment on the near-naked obvious?’

‘I was armed, stunk of kolto and visibly pissed off.’

He gives her a cocky grin. This one’s definitely feigned. ‘Didn’t make you any less attractive, did it?’

She rolls her eyes. She’s grinning herself though; she’s well used to his poor attempts at flirting by now. Probably doesn’t hurt that ever since Nar Shaddaa she seems to be working off the assumption that they’re just another wall, part of his eternal quest to be underestimated rather than serious passes at her. He’s got no intention of correcting her. It’s not like he actually expects for it to go anywhere anyway; it might as well just be a wall. ‘So that’s what you fantasize about? The stench of fish and me being angry at you?’

‘You caught me,’ Atton deadpans, dropping his feet back to the floor, knees just _slightly_ wider apart than necessary. ‘Dead fish and impending violence; that’s what gets me going, all right. _So_ hot. Better watch for that blaster.’

Her gaze doesn’t even flicker towards his crotch. Not that he’d expected it to, really, but half-hearted hoping never hurt anyone. ‘Don’t have any macrobinoculars handy, sadly.’

‘ _Harsh_.’

‘That’s what you get for deflecting.’ She cricks her neck to the side. ‘So that’s the trick, then? Think of something unappealing?’

He briefly toys with the idea of agreeing just to change the topic. His conscience wins out in the end though; he’s not about to send her into battle with Sleeps-With-Vibroblades thinking of Kreia in the nude. (Also, Kreia would _definitely_ know he’d lied to her and he’s got no intention of poking that particular rancor unless there’s a very, very good reason to.) ‘Well – not _unappealing_ , strictly speaking.’

She dips her chin; _continue_.

Well. Looks like his sabaac face is going to get a workout after all. At least it’s a bit more interesting than hyperdrive couplings.

‘The trick is,’ he says, being very mindful of his words, ‘to use something that anyone looking in would find believable, but that isn’t something that you could actually lose yourself in.’

Surik blinks twice and frowns. ‘That,’ she says, leaning back in the chair, ‘is the vaguest and most frustrating answer you could have given, Rand. I thought you hated the mystical Jedi talk.’

‘What, you want me to bring up some holovids for reference? Give you some explicit examples?’

A faint flush rises on her cheeks. Only a moment later it’s gone; if he hadn’t been watching for it, he could’ve chalked it up to the console lights. ‘That would be helpful, yes.’

In his mind, Meetra rises to her feet and drifts closer to him, her tone softer and more inquisitive as she reaches a hand out to lightly touch his wrist, to still his shuffling.

In reality, Surik folds her arms again and raises an eyebrow, not moving from her spot in the co-pilot’s seat.

Atton shrugs, forces himself to adopt his standard flirtatious smirk. ‘Well, I’ll have to make a few assumptions, but let’s see… you could put together a nice little fantasy about being rescued from nefarious Sith imprisonment by a scruffy yet dashing pilot, and rewarding him the only way you know how –’

She snorts. It only sounds partly surprised and far less offended than he thought it would.

‘– or if that sounds like too much of a good time, maybe you’d go for something along the lines of finding an injured scoundrel out in the wastes somewhere, nursing him back to health only to find he has no way to thank you short of –’

‘If you keep going like that, I’m going to have to slap you,’ she says, but she’s grinning. ‘That’s the lamest bantha poodoo I’ve heard in years. Just what kind of vids are you _watching_?’

None that he’s about to share with her. Instead he deals himself a physical hand of pazaak, like he’s actually playing a game, and splits his attention between the numbers in his hand and the phantom at his side. ‘That’s the _point_ , Surik. From your end of things it’s an awful, cliché-ridden waste of time. From an outsider’s perspective, well, it’s pretty plausible, so they’ll slide off your thoughts and move on. You’re not distracted in your own fantasies and they’re thrown off-guard or distracted themselves; either way, your thoughts are your own, and you’ve got the upper hand.’

Imaginary Meetra runs a hand down his chest, glances up at him almost adoringly as she sinks to her knees; _that’s clever… but what if it **becomes** distracting?_

In the co-pilot’s seat Surik merely nods, thoughtfully, and unfolds her arms. ‘So realistic, but not realistic at the same time? Like something you don’t actually enjoy?’

Imaginary Meetra’s eyes grow wide as she pulls his (currently) imaginary dick from his trousers. Not surprised; pleased. Maybe there’s even a little bit of anticipation in there. Her hand is soft and warm, her breath moist and heavy, and she keeps her eager gaze locked on his as she opens wide and –

‘I never said it had to be something you wouldn’t enjoy,’ he says, his eyes on the cards in his hands. ‘You can like it, no worries. Probably better that you do – someone might wonder why you’re thinking of something you find disgusting and push a bit deeper. It just can’t be realistic enough that you could lose yourself in it. Understand me?’

Real Surik rises to her feet, crosses over to his side of the cockpit. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she almost sounds flirtatious as she sinks down to rest her weight on the arm of his seat. ‘So me blowing you in this chair isn’t realistic enough to lose yourself in?’

He snaps the cards back into a single stack. Imaginary Meetra almost disappears in favour of hyperspace routes but out of nothing more than spite, he has her keep going. ‘Only under the old witch’s guidance, huh?’ His tone is far harsher than he intended but he kind of doesn’t care.

Should’ve expected it, really. Once a Jedi, always a Jedi. Doesn’t matter that she killed more than he ever did.

(He is _not_ thinking about how he begged to be trained in the Force, not now. That’s different. He’s too old to be a padawan, ergo he’ll never be a Jedi, just a scoundrel with a few extra tricks up his sleeve. He’s a liar and a two-time deserter but he’s no damn hypocrite.)

‘Didn’t have to. You’re projecting.’

He wants to say she’s lying. Running quiet was his whole _job_ once upon a time. But things are different now, _he’s_ different now and he hates that he can kind of sense she’s being honest even though he wants her to be lying through her teeth. He hates that he can’t just say she’s full of it and be done with this conversation. He hates that despite everything he’s ended up changing anyway.

Really, he mostly just hates himself, but that’s hardly new.

‘Oh, am I? Seems awfully convenient.’

‘Cut the crap, Rand. What do you have to gain from denial now?’

She reaches out to grab for the cards, for his hand. He catches her wrist before she can. Harsh words jumble at the edge of his tongue, his teeth, aching to lash out and hurt but he bites them back; he’s here to protect. To guard. To have a purpose.

Imaginary Meetra pauses, looks up; this isn’t in the script. She’s not disappointed or annoyed though. She’s just worried for him. Worried _about_ him, even, like he’s someone that matters.

‘Because you can do better,’ he says harshly. It’s the most honest he’s been since Nar Shaddaa.

Something like understanding flickers in her eyes. By the time he’s seen it it’s gone. For the best, he tells himself; he’s already said too much in the course of their relationship (because stars know he can’t call it an acquaintance, not with how many lies have been told or bodies left in their wake, but friendship implies a level of intimacy that the both of them have seemingly deliberately steered clear of).

The muscles in her forearm tense against his grip. ‘Better than what?’

‘Don’t.’ He doesn’t know if he wants to follow with _make me say it_ or _give me false hope_ so he keeps his mouth shut.

She still hasn’t moved from the arm of the chair. ‘Better than _what_ , Rand?’

Something between bitterness and spite flares in his chest. ‘Dragging the answers from my head not good enough for you anymore?’ He wants to pull her closer so he all but shoves her wrist away, turning his eyes back to the console and the caring, understanding eyes of imaginary Meetra at his knees. ‘Doesn’t matter. You can do better, end of story. Go _do_ better. Don’t waste your time.’

Then it’s her fingers around his wrist, strong and firm. ‘And if I don’t _want_ better?’

It’s the right thing to say but also the wrong thing to say; his heart jumps into his mouth even as his gut churns, his spirits rising even as a bitter wave swells to meet it.

 _At least she’s honest_ , he tries to tell himself. _She’s not saying you’re good_. Just that she’s willing to take what she can, for now. Just that he’ll be suitable, for now. Just that for the time being, for the purposes of whatever the fuck she needs _right now_ , he’ll be enough.

She knows the truth, he reminds himself. She knows his past. She knows who he was and what he did and she still wants in spite of that. Or maybe she just doesn’t care. Maybe it doesn’t matter who he was or what he did; maybe he’s just the nearest warm body who won’t say no. Maybe he’s just the most disposable when things inevitably end or go to shit. Maybe he’s the fool for thinking this could mean something – for _wanting_ this to mean something.

Imaginary Meetra draws herself up to stroke his jaw: _it **does** ,_ she says, and she means it. She sees him – all of him, from the best to the worst and beyond – and her touch is reassuring, comforting, gentle. Understanding. Accepting.

Surik’s other hand is on his jaw now, too. Her fingers are callused and worn like his; the rough skin catches in his stubble. Not harsh but not kind. He can’t tell if she’s looking at him. He’s not sure if he even wants her to be. It’s acceptance of a different sort, not the sort he _wants_.

Something twists in him, deep and aching, almost _yearning_ to turn, to bury himself in her promises, to be enough – just for a while. Just for now. To be wanted as he is, to be _needed_ as he is, just for a while. He could do it so easily. It would almost feel good. He could pretend, just for a while, that she might want him – all of him – that she’s not just after a distraction, that he’s her first choice and not just the easiest choice, that her wanting him _means_ something –

‘You _should_ ,’ he says, and he means it. Doesn’t matter that she’s an exile, that she was the one to pull the pin at Malachor, that her own collection of scars rivals even his. She can do better than him. She has to know this. He’s nobody’s first choice; he’s a fallback option, something borne of necessity and not desire. Except she’s _his_ first choice, a desire and a dream, and though he’d love nothing more than to surrender to her every whim it just hurts too fucking much to know it’ll be nothing in the end.

He’s ugly, inside and out. He knows this.

She doesn’t really want him. She can do better. He’s just convenient is all. He’s easy.

The cockpit door hisses shut. Her breath is warm and moist at his ear as her hand shifts to the back of his neck and he’s torn between turning in to meet her and jerking away so he stays frozen, unable to move, unable to do the right thing. By her, anyway. And only maybe for him.

‘And just where do you get off telling me what I should want?’ she asks.

Her tone is teasing with an undercurrent of implied control. She knows he can’t refuse, won’t refuse; this is her game now, useless as a mental barricade but perfect as a distraction. She knows he’s wanted her since Peragus. For all his bluster and false confidence she _knows_ he wants to feel his hands on her skin, her mouth on his body. And he does. He always has. It’s not her fault that he wants more – she can’t know that. _Won’t_ know that.

Imaginary Meetra leans in to plant a gossamer-light kiss on his cheek, draws back with a melancholy smile and infinite patience.

Surik’s first kiss is hard, heavy, almost needy against his jaw. He can almost feel her teeth. The second kiss he definitely can; she’ll leave a mark if she’s not careful. Not that she hasn’t already but those ones can’t be seen.

He exhales heavily. It’s pointless, he knows this; he’s always been weak. A coward. He was pathetic long before he knew her and even if he wasn’t, if this is what she wants, if it’ll make her happy, he’ll give it to her. Doesn’t matter if it’s the equivalent of a bacta patch on a disruptor blast to the gut for his own happiness. That’s not her fault. Couldn’t be her fault. And it’s not like he _won’t_ enjoy the physical aspect.

One last attempt: ‘Because this is a bad idea and you know it. You can do better.’

‘I’ve had worse ideas before. And –’ she lets go of his wrist, turns him by the chin to look her in the eyes – ‘so could you. Seems we’re even.’

Even if he couldn’t see the earnestness in her eyes he can feel it in the Force. Doesn’t matter that she’s categorically wrong; she believes it. Guess a million nameless deaths would sit heavy on the conscience of someone who started out with good intentions. Not like he’d know anything about that personally, but he can make an educated guess.

His hand moves without thinking, drops the cards, catches her by the back of the neck even though he should be shaking her off, pushing her away, insisting that she not stoop to his level. Some protector he is. ‘Not even remotely, Surik. But if you’ve made up your mind…’

She wants a distraction. He wants validation. She needs to forget; he needs to be wanted.

If she’s happy for it, then he can be happy for her. Just for a little while. It’ll be enough.

(Not really, not truly, but he was never enough for anyone to begin with so temporary contentment will have to be enough for him. It’s not like he really deserves anything more.)

Imaginary Meetra fades away like the figment she is, leaving only the ghostly reflection of a very real Surik in the viewport. And him, of course, looking everywhere but back at himself.

‘…then don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Her kisses are hungry, eager, almost greedy. She tastes of dehydration – stale caf, dried saliva, yesterday’s whiskey. Whatever he tastes like has to be worse but she doesn’t stop, keeps pushing, and he pours himself into giving her everything she wants from him. He’s not enough – he’ll never be enough, he knows this – but maybe he can pretend to be, just for a while. For her.

Besides, he’d be lying to say he’s not wanted this for months now. He’s well practiced at pushing his emotions aside when need be.

Her fingers dig into his skin, leaving crescent half-moon bruises scattered over his body. Pale red trails are scratched down his chest, across his flanks as clothes are pulled off and thrown aside, like he eventually will be. He’s more careful – more deliberate, less desperate, less willing to risk causing pain – even though she’s writhing from his first touch and half-begging, half-ordering him for _more_ , for _faster_ , for something like a curse or that might have been his name. For things that don’t matter. Words aren’t needed, not now.

She isn’t consciously trying to hurt him, he knows. It’s just – it’s just how she is in this moment. Hungry. Eager. Almost greedy. Like if she grips him hard enough, pulls him deep enough his body can somehow fill the void the war left inside her. Maybe she’s onto something there.

The pain is still good, though. It keeps him tethered. Reminds him that this is real. This isn’t another imagined fantasy; this is Meetra Surik riding him in the _Ebon Hawk’s_ pilot chair, whimpering alternating pleas and curses into the crook of his neck as he pulls her against him like they could almost meld together if they tried hard enough. Two broken pieces into something new. Not a whole – he’s not enough to make up the difference – but new.

At least for now. The future can be its own problem.

She chants his name against his neck as her motions grow erratic. If he doesn’t think too hard – _very_ easy to do right now – he could almost fool himself into thinking there was something more to it. That it isn’t just a verbal anchor, isn’t just something to fill and spill from her mouth in the heat of the moment. That she might _mean_ something by it. That _he_ might mean something to her, at all.

She shudders against him mindlessly, carelessly, her body moving on instinct and pleasure alone. In the viewport reflection he sees for a moment the weight on her shoulders is gone, the creases at her eyes are smoothed, her smile is wide and genuine and _easy_ and in that moment she is so unearthly, unimaginably beautiful that he wants time itself to end just so the last thing he sees is _her_ –

His own vision dissolves into stars and the sound of hyperspace. When he fades back to reality her face is still buried in his neck, her hands still tightly gripping his shoulders, aftershocks still sending trembles through her body.

His eyes drift up, meet those of his own reflection, and his stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with the come-down.

She really could do so much better.

He traces gentle lines across the back of her neck for a while as she collects herself. She seems almost reticent to move from the apparent safety of his arms; he’s not inclined to prod her into moving. While she stays he can keep his eyes on the curve of her back, keep his mind on how wonderfully warm and close she is, keep feeling wanted. Not just used. _Wanted_.

He’s long gone soft by the time she finally lifts herself off him but she makes no smart comment or quip, merely smiles tiredly and presses a gossamer-light kiss to his cheek. ‘Seems that warning was misplaced.’

He wants to catch her cheek, wants to make the kiss last just a fraction of a second longer. He knows better than to try. ‘You’re underestimating yourself, Surik.’ Undervaluing is more like it but he’s not sure he can say that in this situation. Not sure he can say that, ever.

She runs her fingers over his jaw. Her fingers are no smoother than they were before but they _feel_ smoother now, like somehow the intervening sex has softened her, made her touch gentler. ‘Or perhaps you’re overestimating me.’

Maybe he _is_ overestimating her. Maybe her reflection is no less judgmental than his; maybe she sees herself as no less ugly than he sees himself. Maybe he’s not the only one who needs to be wanted. Maybe she’s not the only one who’s looking for a distraction.

Or maybe she’s underestimating _him_. Maybe she doesn’t see just how worthless he is, how _ugly_ he is despite his best efforts to show her.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

(It does but he can pretend that it doesn’t, at least for the next few minutes.)

So he pulls her in for a kiss he doesn’t deserve, shouldn’t have earned, shouldn’t enjoy but he _does_ enjoy, maybe kind of earned, maybe one day will deserve, and if he holds her a little tighter than he should be… she doesn’t seem to mind. ‘Don’t think that’s possible, beautiful.’

‘Careful, Rand.’ Her smile could nearly be called content. ‘That sounded almost sincere.’

It was, because she is. She’s beautiful in more than just the way the blue light of hyperspace diffuses across her life-worn skin, more than just the way her skin against his feels like the home he never had, more than how the way she looks at him makes him wonder if one day he might be worthy of all she thinks he is.

He always was a wishful thinker.

So he smothers the words on his lips against hers and hopes she doesn’t catch the hint of her name that escapes when he breathes. He hopes she doesn’t feel the burning, yearning ache that surely must be radiating from him like starlight, prays that if she does her pity will be stronger than her justified disgust. His kisses are desperate, pleading, definitively needy but she meets him with no less desire and for a moment – a single fleeting moment – he can pretend that maybe he’s enough.

Only maybe, though.

Just for a moment.


End file.
